I know, I know, this studenthostel is a temporary arrangement, and I know I’m ten miles out of the city centre, but I can’t help feeling a trifle let down. In fact, what the hell am I doing here? Given half a chance, I would gladly pack my belongings and be on the first plane back to London and to the man I love.
* * *
Two weeks later
My eyes flicker open, and I focus my stare on the chandelier suspended fromthe cracked, wedding-cake ceiling. I reach out, tracing my fingers along the crocheted mat, feeling for my watch. I peer at the hands: eight fifty-five. I pull on a woolly sweater over my pyjamas, pad across the tiled floor, and open the flaky shutters.
I step through the beam of sunlight, out onto the balcony, and soak up the sounds of the bustling Rudolfstrasse below: the rumbling tram,car horns, the shouts from the market stall holders, the putt-putt of scooters, and the clinging of bicycle bells. I lean over the wrought-iron railing, and the trailing geraniums (valiantly still flowering) brush my bare feet.
Faye would be proud of me. I am living more and more in the moment these days (since 18th October to be precise, when I moved out of Colditz and into apartment thirteen,thirty-two Rudlofstrasse, home of Frau Anna Schildberger, retired nurse, now theatrical landlady).
The church clock, around the corner in Ringstrasse, chimes nine, reminding me that I’ve had my daily dose of I-am-one-with-the-universe, and to get my arse into gear if I’m to squeeze in my caffeine fix by rehearsal at ten-thirty.
* * *
I am now the proud owner of one of those sit-up-and-begbikes, complete with wicker basket, which I picked up for just forty euros among the second-hand clothes, ornaments, paintings, and general junk at the flea market.
Vienna is great for cyclists, there being plenty of cycle paths and places to park. As someone who regularly runs the gauntlet of the A316 to Richmond and beyond, this city is a dream.
I slot my bike into the rack outside myfavourite coffee shop, Kaffeehaus Vancl.According to my guidebook, this has been a meeting place for poets, writers, and artists for centuries. It’s rather shabby, but full of bohemian character, with its marble-topped tables, creaky wooden chairs, faded drapes, and ornate, gilt mirror. The atmosphere is warm and theatrical –gemütlich,as the natives say.
‘Guten morgen, Fraulein,’ says thewaiter in tuxedo and bow tie, scraping a chair across the floor. ‘Bitte sehr?’ Without waiting for my order, he says, ‘Kaffee mit Schlagobers und zwei Buchteln, bitte‚’ mimicking my Anglo-Viennese accent. I hold this waiter solely responsible for my growing jam-filled bun addiction.
I run my hands across the cool, mottled table and wonder who else has sat here, learning lines, sketching, penningnovellas and music, and did they too dunk their pastries in their coffee, or did the art of dunking not evolve until modern times?
With sticky fingers, I pull the script from my bag and scan my lines for the section we’re working on today. It’s a scene between Ethel (my mother) and me. Chelsea is a dream of a part to play: complex, at odds with her father, and unlucky in love.
There aresome great emotional moments – something to really get my teeth into. I think I can safely say my days of stumbling about the stage sporting a dodgy wig and an even dodgier accent, grappling for my next line, are now firmly in the dim and distant past.
Ethel is played by Mags, the only other female member of the cast.
We hit it off right from the moment we met in the departure lounge thatday at Heathrow …
‘Snap!’
My head bobbed up. Sitting across from me was an elegant woman of about seventy, silver-grey hair piled up on top of her head, an identical green script clutched in her hand.
‘My daughter, I presume?’ she ventured, leaning forward.
I hesitated momentarily, and then it dawned on me. ‘Ethel, how nice to meet you,’ I said, shaking her hand with an enthusiasticgrip.
By the time our plane touched down, we’d crammed two lifetimes into those two short hours. A retired French teacher and keen amateur actress, she’d turned professional after years of caring for her husband.
‘Dementia has stolen him from me,’ she said candidly. ‘When he finally had to go into a home, I decided I needed to make a new life for myself. I feel guilty because he’s stillalive and I’m carrying on as if he’s dead,’ she continued wistfully. ‘But most of the time he doesn’t even know who I am.’
I didn’t know how to respond; what words could possibly be of comfort? ‘Things will get better’ would sound hollow and insincere; but then the stewardess asked if we’d like another drink from the bar, and a mischievous smile stretched across Mags’s face as she said, ‘Oh,I think we could manage one more, don’t you?’
Norman, my father, is played by theatre veteran, Oliver. With his CAA (Concert Artistes’ Club) tie, highly polished shoes, and trilby (which is raised whenever a lady enters the room), he is the archetypal, courtly English gent. We love to hear his stories of the good old days, touring the classics to exotic places with the Sir Donald Wolfit Company.I swear those rich, sonorous tones could be heard over the Rolls Royce engines of a 747.
Not the same can be said, I’m afraid, for top of the bill, Alan Hastings, who has been cast in the role of my fiancé, Bill Ray. Alan has spent the last twenty-five years playing psychiatrist Doctor Chris Lane in the crime dramaMind Games, which has catapulted him into stardom.
This is his first forayinto stage acting, and I can see why the producers chose him: he’s suave, sophisticated (if a little arrogant), and has earned a huge following of die-hard fans (mainly female and gay), who are willing to travel in their droves to see him, so is a huge box office draw. There’s just one small problem: he mumbles. This type of method acting is all very well if you’re Marlon Brando inThe Godfather, where an understated look, a grunt or a whisper is all that’s required to subtly communicate emotions to an audience of one: i.e. the camera lens, but not in a one-thousand-seat auditorium.
But no matter, for there are always queues of adoring autograph hunters at the stage door every night, pens, programmes, and cameras at the ready.
Alan is chauffeured between the Hotel Sacher and thetheatre every day (I can’t begin to imagine how many eurosheearns a week), and is always jawing on about lunching at The Ivy with Michael Caine or golfing with Hugh Grant.
I imagine this must all be very galling for Oliver, who’s a wonderful stage actor, with a list of notable credits to his name, yet walks to the theatre every day, and is staying in a three-star Gasthaus. When I once askedhim about his feelings on the subject, he simply said, ‘Acting is not a contest, Emily. I’m proud of the work I’ve done, and am not interested in keeping score. “When envy breeds unkind division: there comes the ruin, there begins confusion.”Henry The Sixth, Part One.’
